Yarraman's fillies
by Rose G
Summary: Based on the Silver Brumby books, the story of how Yarraman arrived in the High Country and won Mirri and Bel Bel, dam of Thowra.


BRUMBY - The story of Bel Bel, Mirri and Yarraman   
Disclaimer - These all belong to Eylane Mitchell, except the story of how Yarraman arrived in Australia and won his fillies.   
  
  
The bush animals came to talk of him only days after his arrival, the slow old wombats that waddled through the snow, the grey kangaroos, and the wily dingoes. The Ramshead and the Cascades, to which spring came late that year, rung with the sound of his name. 'The Chestnut.... the Chestnut will be king.... Burra is old.'   
  
The young colt shook his head as the rhythmic bounding of the kangaroos disturbed his peace. Never had he seen such creatures, especially the grizzled male that led the trio. They had observed him from a distance, wary of the hooves that could move with the speed of a striking snake.   
  
'Hail to thee, O young colt without a herd. What is a colt like you doing in the kingdom of Burra, King of the Cascade Brumbies? And whence did you come?' The old kangaroo spoke gently.   
  
The colt sunk back into a half rear, fine head raised, golden tail streaming in the breeze. He glittered in the setting sun, looking like a sun god below the grey mountains, as he would that fateful day, far in the future when he would fight The Brogla for the Kingdom of the Cascade Brumbies. 'Who are you, stranger of these wild mountains? And what do you wish from me?'   
  
Again, the grizzled kangaroo spoke. 'I am Bobby, and my wife walks with young Benni. We are friends of all the Cascade Brumbies. You are creating quite a stir around these parts. Whence did you come?'   
  
'From Arabia, the desert far away. Men took me overseas, and I outraced them, for my sire could race the wind, and I to am as swift as the birds that fly.'   
  
Bobby nodded and raised a silvery paw to the moon soft nose of the colt, who snorted in fear, but dropped his forelegs to the ground. Even as the two stood together, there was another horse in the clearing, a strong black mare with wisdom in her eyes. Beside her came a bay filly, a yearling at least, and a tiny black colt clinging to the mare's heaving flanks. All three were foam flecked, coats darkened with sweat, and even the chestnut could smell their fear.   
  
Bobby swung around to face her, forepaws in the air. 'The grey stallion from Paddy's Rush Bogong has killed Burra, and already is collecting his mares. Only I, and Bella, cream dam of the creamy Bel Bel have escaped. She is coming, but she is old now, and courage alone cannot travel from the Valley to the Cascades in a night.'   
  
'I go now to the North, to find Burra's firstborn son so that I may run with him for a year or two, and my black colt comes with me. But Mirri I entrust to you, Bobby. Take her to the Flat, which only the moon knows, and find a herd with which she may run. Bella may come north later, or she may feel her time is come and head for the Ramshead tors. Bel Bel will stay with you, O Bobby.'   
  
Gently, the black mare reached her nose out to the yearlings, then turned away, breaking into a jog trot. The filly watched her out of sight, then gave one long call that lingered on the breeze. Entranced, the colt walked forward, neck arched and head thrown up.   
  
'Hail, Mirri. I have heard tale of Burra, king of the High country, but tell me, who is this grey stallion?   
  
'You must be the colt of whom all horses speak and the lyre birds sing. Strider, the men call you. And my sire called you Yarraman, and believed you would one day fight him for the kingdom and yet you are of my age.' With this she rubbed her face on his neck. 'I shall call you Yarraman, Horse. But hush, Bel Bel comes!'   
  
And so, Yarraman won his first filly when he was barely a year old, as in years to come, his great grandson Baringa would.   
  
With rhythmic bounds, Bobby walked over to a slight gap in the trees. Yarraman strained his ears, the golden tips almost touching as he quivered in excitement. Mirri whickered a greeting, and was answered by the soft call of a mare.   
  
Without sound, the trees seemed to stir, and sliding between the trunks came a wreath of shining light, a dancing ghost, a vision of loveliness in the shape of a filly. The colt was so intent on looking at her, he jumped when he realised there was another horse in the glade.   
  
The cream mare was old; even Yarraman could see that. Her forehead was white as though snow had fallen on it, her firm legs scarred and her back swayed. Yet still, her head was fine, her bearing proud, and courage and wisdom burnt in her dark eyes.   
  
'Bobby, I see Mirri is here. Will you take Bel Bel under your care?'   
  
'Yes, O cream mare born of racehorses. Bel Bel may run with Mirri and Yarraman on the Hidden Flat, until such time comes when two, even though one may be the finest mare to grace these mountains, is not enough for him. He will care for them before then. And where do you go now, Bella?'   
  
'To the Ramsheads, to wait for the cold wind and the starlight to hold me, and the winter snow to touch me, and destiny to take me.'   
  
'Bella, you were born of man's horses, yet in the High Country, as the silver dam of a silver filly, you shall not be forgotten. Fare thee well, my friend.'   
  
Bella rubbed her greying muzzle along Bel Bel's neck, tossed her head in farewell to Bobby, and was gone like smoke on the wind.   
  
Greatly daring, Yarraman walked up to Bel Bel and greeted her. Then he reared, seeking to trample the stars under his fore feet. The clearing was full of horses, youngsters maddened by spring.   
  
Gold and silver, the Sun and the Moon, the three danced together in celebration of their magnificent, invincible youth. And in years to come, when Bel Bel, Mirri and Yarraman were but mere legends told by great stallions to wind swift foals, the glade echoed to the sheer ecstasy of youth, the wisdom of the wild, and the pride of a young stallion in his mares.   
  
And for the next three years or so, the men of the Australian bush talked of the colt and his two fillies that moved like ghosts. They talked of him around the campfire, or as they herded cattle from one pasture to another. A queer one, they reckoned, apparently happy with a small herd, and without a history. A colt with the speed of the wind and a coat the colour of gold.   
  
'I saw that chestnut this morning' a man would say to another, and the other men would know what horse they meant. The little colt whose speed was the talk of the High Country, and who would have made Arabia proud. The golden sire of a silver herd.


End file.
